


I'm Sorry I Love You

by rosie_berber



Series: Mixtapes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Era, Cockblock Sam, Cockblock Sam Winchester, Episode: s09e22 Stairway to Heaven, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Impala, Impala Feels, M/M, Metafiction, Mixtape, Road Trips, Sam Ships It, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel finally understands what's behind all of those love songs after Metatron provides him with a few millennia worth of pop culture. Castiel proceeds to make the fluffiest mixtape ever for his one true love, mustering up the courage to put it in the Impala's cassette deck (ha!). But with Metatron's schemes hanging overhead, what will his admission mean?</p><p>Update: I now have a <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I don't know how to use it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bit of a Retcon

**Author's Note:**

> The mixtape prompted by and recalling some my most favourite Destiel moments. Listen along here: [I'm Sorry I Love You](http://hypster.com/playlists/user/rosie_berber?7188453#aMKo4zm6W3h1GBbV.03)
> 
> Fic takes place in the canonverse, between S09E18 and S09E23. I roughly estimate this to be April through June 2014.
> 
> I'm an avid reader of Destiel fanfic, but this is my first attempt on the other side of things. I pushed against my perfectionism to finish this, but will in all likelihood continue to improve little pieces as time passes on.
> 
> Written primarily from Castiel's POV, with dashes of Dean's and sprinkles of Sam's.
> 
> Major character death is canon-consistent, but non-permanent. 
> 
> Thank you for all your kind words and kudos - they gave me the resolve to finish my first work!
> 
> ❤️ Rosie
> 
>  

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author fantasizes way too much about what Castiel could do with his newfound trivial knowledge.
> 
> The song that inspires this fiction is called "I'm Sorry I Love You" by the Magnetic Fields. It's off their brilliant three part album, 69 Love Songs.

* * *

  _Do not listen to my song_

_Don't remember it, don't sing along_

_Let's pretend it's a work of art_

_Let's pretend it's not my heart._  

* * *

**April 29, 2014**

_“Inspector Gregory. Sherlock Holmes. ‘Silver Blaze’?”_

The six words hang in the air between the two men. The man in the paisley silk smoking jacket speaks with a manic determination usually reserved for Bond villains, to a quite literally captive audience. He waits for the reference to land, clearly disappointed when it is instead met with vacancy in two pools of deep blue.

_"You have been around since scaly things crawled out of the muck. Would it have killed you to pick up a book, watch a movie?”_

Metatron is far from the first to be incensed by Castiel’s illiteracy in all things pop culture. His one-two punch of  _narrowed eyes, head tilt_  has elicited many a rolled eye during his six years walking this earth at Dean Winchester’s side. At first, he was certain the man’s frequent use of other people’s words was an evasion, a linguistic tick expressing his uncertainty about the angel and his brethren’s motives. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. As much as Castiel insisted their intentions were pure, that he was indeed righteous enough to rescue from hell, Dean had remained unconvinced, his riddled speech a symptom of his skepticism. Why else would the hunter so frequently rely on referential speech? It was frustratingly inefficient and imprecise to borrow phrases from the mouths of actors and singers.

It wasn’t until Jimmy Novak was fully and truly gone, until Castiel had rebelled, chosen free will, until he himself had been pieced back together, alone in this trenchcoat-clad vessel, that he began to understand. To use the words of others was not a way for Dean Winchester to avoid communicating, but rather, to guardedly attempt it. The faded band t-shirts, the worn-out cassettes, the movie that could bring comfort after a particularly draining hunt: these were things Castiel once thought specious, insignificant . But what he had spent the past five years slowly growing to understand was that these conscious choices constituted the _identity_ of the man he had gripped tight and raised from Perdition. They were a wanderer’s connection to the world. Those choices might not have been part of his soul, but they were part of what made him human.

So Castiel now relishes every allusion, cherishes every new piece Dean offers of himself. He collects them delicately, as delicately he collected the shards of Dean’s obliterated soul and painstakingly threaded them back together. And yet still, they puzzle him, how these images and words of ordinary people provide solace to this extraordinary man. He is about to lose himself in the memory of a favourite lyric he can nearly hear Dean singing from behind the wheel of the Impala when a sharp, shrill voice assaults him.

" _Here. I know it's a bit of a retcon, but it's gonna make this whole conversation a lot easier.”_

The last thing he feels is the pads of Metatron’s fingers against the skin of his forehead. The last thing, that is, until a searing pain overwhelms his whole body, still restrained within the plush leather chair. A rapidfire succession of manufactured memories force their way into his mind. A renegade smuggler from outer space who shot first. The town hall of Stars Hollow, Connecticut, with a high school student that seems to have borrowed Sam's face. A baseball stadium, where four men in identical suits and haircuts attempt to play music made inaudible by the screams of teenage girls.  A particularly confusing piece of theatre where human beings attired like felines sing about sunflowers and moonlight and new days. He pushes through the piercing sensation penetrating his brain to once again meet the scribe's glare.

_“I just gave you every book, movie, and TV show I have consumed in the last couple of millennia. Now do you understand that ‘the universe is made up of stories, not atoms’?”_

His mind is groggy but he is able to place the quote out of the infuriating man’s mouth. Muriel Rukeyser. The quote is awash amongst the flood.

_“Ah! It can be taught. Here are a few more lessons. First rule of writers club... steal from the best.”_

They are the last words to which Castiel can pay any conscious attention. He desperately tries to quiet his mind. He envisions a garden, focusing on a bee that has landed on a flower. Only now, instead of being able to focus on each and every one of the the intricate movements of the gold and onyx creature, Castiel gets distracted, as a peculiar image of an adorably awkward girl clad in a facsimile of the bee's stripes dances in a meadow as a long-haired man from a band strangely named after a type of fruit that cannot see sings about a drought of sorts. Lost in this labyrinth of connections, Castiel hardly notices when the writer with the God complex finally finishes yammering on about heroes and villains, about writer and reader and resolution, and releases Castiel from his captivity.

 xxxxx

The warmth of the fire in the oak-covered study gives way to a cool night breeze, brushing against Castiel’s cheek in an empty field of wheat. He feels himself finally exhaling, noticing the hitch in his breath, feeling the buzzing sensations in his fingertips. When his lungs finally steady, he sits, smoothing the trenchcoat that falls to his sides, embracing his knees while steadfastly refusing to emancipate the tears welling. He closes his eyes again, slowly, deliberately surveying the cerebral catalogue now at his disposal. Without knowing why, he settles on an album of sixty-nine love songs. He chooses a favourite, playing it repeatedly within his mind, opening his eyes and craning his neck towards the heavens to stare solemnly at the stars. By the fifth time he has listened to the singer unconvincingly plead that her love song is a work of fiction, Castiel knows that Metatron has cursed him.

The profound bond, the familial need, the loyalty: those words were no longer quite enough to capture what it is he feels for the man for whom he has died on more than one occasion.

Castiel now knows a million love songs, not only the lyrics and chords, but the inspiration. Love songs that can only be really, truly, honestly heard by someone in love.

It is at this moment Castiel feels a strange stirring he knows he must satisfy. To steal from the best.

Castiel is about to go make his very first mixtape.


	2. In The Backseat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author wonders how our two star-crossed lovers react in the wake of Castiel again rejecting the heavens for one man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter! Not feeling like this work is perfect AT ALL, but needing to post it to get myself fully getting into this idea.
> 
> Song this time is "In the Backseat" by the Arcade Fire, not only because I really do think the Impala is a sort of makeshift home, but also, because there is something ethereal about Régine Chassagne's voice that is that perfect balance of simplicity and power.

* * *

  _I like the peace_  
_In the backseat_  
_I don't have to drive_  
_I don't have to speak_  
_I can watch the countryside_ _  
And I can fall asleep_

* * *

 **June 14, 2014**  

_"No. I can’t.”_

Three words and Castiel finds himself once again cast out. Three syllables painfully pulled through his teeth, crushing his hopes to repair what he had so badly damaged. Within minutes of the virtual assault by Metatron, headquarters had been all but shuttered up, the pulse of the project flatlining. Three words led to the three - the vacated vessel, the cursed creature, the ailing angel - standing between the megalomaniac and mankind.

Another plan deferred, the residue of past failures starts to fill Castiel’s lungs. His chest heaves heavily, numbness takes over his limbs, nerves crackle throughout his panicked body - how tempting it is to run from this vessel and never look back. Perhaps from desperation, perhaps from courage, Castiel is able to glance upon the man for whom he had, once again, lost it all. He’s terrified he will find apathy in those orbs of intoxicating jade, an apathy that might turn him once and for all to stone.  And yet, for a moment’s moment, he swears he sees a flicker of adoration.

That possibility soothes the loss; suddenly, it seems easier to leave behind the army of insurgents for a life’s belongings thrown in a duffel bag. A recent addition to that collection is a thirty year old Walkman purchased at a Salvation Army. The toothy grin plastered across Castiel’s face as he completed the transaction with two crumpled dollars had elicited a look of deep and utter confusion from the cashier. Little did she know that she was liberating a long harbored but only recently named feeling. These past weeks, Castiel had grown fond of listening to his carefully curated mix in a decidedly human way, through a device powered not by angel mojo, but rather, double A's.

As he clears a final leatherbound notebook from his command center, placing it carefully within his bag, Castiel can't fight the compulsion to slip his hand into the silky pocket of his faithful trenchcoat. He grasps his slender fingertips around the hard plastic of the cassette tape, heart racing **now** more rapidly than in his earlier altercation with Heaven’s Most Douchey. He knows he needs its comfort, its reassurance, now more than ever.

xxxxx

“Cas, you ready to go?” The words, simple as they may be, fall from Sam’s lips with characteristic compassion.

Cas responds as if in a daze. “My car. It’s at a motel. A few miles out on the interstate. I think I’ll walk there. I could use some time to clear my head. Then I could join you.” Sterile words betray the sweaty palms and erratic pulse.

It seems as if an eternity has passed before Dean interjects with carefully curated distance. “Not for nothing Cas, but in times like these, thinking’s overrated. I think about the last thing in the world you need right now is to be left alone with the thoughts kicking around in your head. Don’t have the best track record on that front. Let’s grab some grub and hit the road. Sammy and I can drop you off at the motel afterwards.”

Castiel wants to pause this moment, study it, sculpt it, paint it. He wants to make an impression of the sympathetic squint in Sam’s eyes, the restraint he is exhibiting over his lips, lips that always seem to be on the cusp of telling his brother that he isn’t proving anything by dressing his care up in nonchalance. He wants to measure the heat radiating off Dean as he tries to play it cool. He wants to run his hands from Dean's face to his feet, to see if his stoicism would survive Castiel's touch. He wants to bask in the tenderness of these two men, whose souls, whose goodness, has endured hell. Castiel wants to pause this moment, but time manipulation falls squarely on the side of the kind of angel mojo from which he has been cut off.

He can’t pause the moment, but he himself has paused, awkwardly frozen in his trance. Resuscitated only by the two hands grasping each of his shoulders, hands whose power over him is greater than all that heaven has to offer. Flushed and breathless, Castiel quickly produces the cassette tape from his pocket, pushing it squarely into Dean's firm chest.

“Dean, I know you are very particular about the selection of music played within the car, but maybe, just this once, I could play this collection? I feel that listening to this particular array of musical arrangements could help me process this day in such a way that I will feel ultimately less uncertain about the future.”

He watches as Dean shifts nervously in place, as if he so desperately wants to laugh, shout, take the cassette, throw it to the ground, slowly, deliberately crush it under the heel of his boot, take a lighter to the magnetic tape and watch it burn. But, almost sheepishly, he nods to affirm. As Cas’s slender fingers graze Dean’s as he passes him the plastic prism, a subtle pink flush overtakes softly freckled skin. Dean only lifts his gaze to turn to his brother, a finger authoritarily raised.

“Not a word Sammy.”

Sam closes the gape that has replaced his resting facial expression, hands raised in surrender.

 xxxxx

They pile into the Impala, the brothers in the front. Cas can still hear the engine purr nestled in the backseat as they begin to pull onto the street, leaving catastrophe in the rear view mirror. Dean quickly fumbles to push the tape in, as if he won’t have the nerve if he lets more than a minute elapse. The tape catches, and the first track begins.

 

 _I like the peace_  
_In the backseat_  
_I don't have to drive_  
_I don't have to speak_  
_I can watch the countryside_ _  
__And I can fall asleep_

  
He has lost so much today - family, mission, purpose. But in this moment, Castiel cannot seem to care about any of that. He shuts his eyes and feels the singer’s words wash over him, knowing this particular backseat to be home.


	3. Secret Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Sam is a surrogate for us all, shipping the hell out of these two, greasing the wheels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is "Secret Heart" by Ron Sexsmith. Feist did a lovely cover of it as well, but the original has always had a bit more going for it, for me.

* * *

_This very secret_ _  
_ _That you're trying to conceal_ _  
_ _Is the very same one_  
_You're dying to reveal_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

For six minutes, Sam Winchester gently taps his fingers on his thigh, a rhythm perceptible only to heavenly ears.

For six minutes, Castiel feels as if he is strapped to a pendulum, swaying from peace to paranoia. The tranquility of the car, which looks and sounds and smells like Dean, nestled in song, threatened by the uncertainty Castiel feels if his first selection was a subtle enough introduction.

For six minutes, the rear view mirror is a formidable foe for Dean. He finds himself inexplicably afraid of the next lyric, afraid of the the next lament, afraid that meeting the gaze of the backseat passenger might make him suddenly swerve. Fear leads to anger, anger that he feels held captive in his sanctuary, his baby. Anger leads to hate, hate that he is anticipating innuendo as the song progresses, hate that, try as he might, he can’t seem to shake the hope that these songs mean something to Cas. Fear, anger and hate lead to the suffering of Dean Winchester behind the wheel of the Impala.

Fresh from being considered for assassination by an array of angels, Dean still offers a silent prayer of thanks directed to someone up there as the track gently fades just as they pull into the parking lot of the diner. The engine falls silent and intermission begins.

A bell dings overhead as they enter the diner. Castiel and Sam slide into opposing sides of a vinyl booth, leaving Dean with the awkward choice of choosing with whom to double up. Risking potential awkward admissions over the definite outcome of being elbowed by his oversized behemoth of a brother, he scoots in next to Cas. The fluorescent lights over the formica table hum as the men place their order: coffee with a peanut butter and jam sandwich, bacon cheeseburger with onion rings, grilled chicken salad with “fresh” fruit.

“You know if they’ve got to put quotation marks around it, it probably doesn’t pass the rabbit food test, right Sammy?”

The insult is met with some top-notch bitch-face.

While they wait for the meal, the men make their version of water cooler talk, discussing possible heavenly weapons they could acquire that might slow Metatron down in his tracks. It is only minutes before the three disparate selections get placed before them. Dean rearranges his body to prepare to best inhale his burger, slightly aligning his thigh against Castiel’s. This, along with Castiel’s arm grazing the plaid-clad limb next to him, his own skin making contact with the brand on Dean's forearm, liberates a barely audible moan from his lips. Castiel almost smiles as he watches Sam stare with ferocious intensity at the inappropriate pineapple on his plate. Uninterested in more than a few bites from his sandwich, Castiel becomes entranced with the small beads of sweat form on the underside of Dean’s lips. How he longs to reject his water glass and let his tongue lap at that reservoir.

As Dean unlatches his jaw Leviathan style to accommodate the hefty meat parade, he notices Cas's eyes, pupils growing. They seem to be fixed on Dean's lips, but Cas is probably considering the rate at which the universe is expanding or something. It is just coincidence his face got stuck pointed in Dean's direction. Still, Dean feels his blood rush from his heart to his extremities in an instant. He inadvertently pushes away what was a perfectly good contribution to a future cardiac episode.

"Not a member of the Clean Plate Club tonight?" Sam inquires between bites of green. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Ain't hungry for that anymore is all." Dean hopes no one notices how he inadvertently steals a glance towards Cas. "Not gonna embrace the hippie granola lifestyle anytime soon Sammy. Sorry to disappoint."

It’s only minutes before the trio are ready to pay their bill, with Castiel and Dean adorably reaching for the bill at the same time, like a first date where each is eager to impress, their appendages once again making contact. Sam inadvertently rolls his eyes as Dean insists that it’s on him, or, more accurately, on the Stephen Moore plastered across the credit card currently in his possession. Castiel pretends not to notice when Dean passes his hand over his lap as he exits the booth, making a quick adjustment before he stands.

xxxxx

Dean had all but forgotten about the forfeit of auditory privileges he had passed to Castiel as he revs up the Impala’s engine. Only moments after he has put the car in drive, he is reminded, as a song of incomparable softness blares on the stereo, foreign to the classic rock collection housed in his glove compartment. It is only a mile of open road to the motel, but it feels like a millenia.

For three minutes, Dean Winchester’s heart tries to erupt from his chest, as the singer from the stereo croons about three words that cannot be said aloud.

For three minutes, Castiel feels as if he is once again plummeting. He wishes to bask again in the warmth that had radiated off Dean’s body just moments ago, as he is convinced his second choice was too overt in its message.

For three minutes, the rearview mirror implores Sam to take action. He sees an opening and he goes with it. He contorts his frame towards the backseat, but fashions a soliloquy for the benefit of both of his fellow riders.

“Cas, you’ve had a hell of a day, rejecting heaven _again_ and all. I’m sure you’re wiped. Why don’t I drive the pimpmobile back to Lebanon and you can ride shotgun with the pardoned convict who just put you on the outs with our feathered friends?”

As the neon lights of the motel come into view, Castiel knows, this is his one chance.

  
“Thank you Sam. That sounds perfect.”


	4. God Help the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author decides, hey, it's not confusing enough to just switch between characters' perspectives, let's also have fantasy-driven flashbacks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I'm turning out a chapter a day, but this has been really good for me! Slowly, slowly, slowly, heating up. And this most certainly is one of my most favourite canon Castiel moments. Always fun to invent a smutty subtext for even banal interactions between these two.
> 
> Song in this chapter is "God Help the Girl" by "God Help the Girl." A lot more playful, fitting for this particular memory. And because good mix tapes are able to achieve the delicate balance that keeps the listener wondering what's next.

* * *

_I sit for hours just waiting for his phone call_  
_I'll eat the chocolate hidden in the fridge_  
_I'll play his messages_  
_Analyze his intonation_ _  
Please stop me there, I'm even boring myself_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

_Thank God for Sam Winchester,_ Castiel thinks silently to himself, watching the taillights of the Lincoln Continental illuminate the journey ahead. After a flustered comment from Dean that he refuses to play Hoke to Cas’s Miss Daisy (a reference Castiel now gets, even if he’d be willing to let that one go), Castiel has relocated to the front seat. It may elude others, but Castiel can taste the sweetness of Dean’s sarcasm. And with the exaggerated look flashed in his direction solicited by the unrelenting twee of the track that has just possessed the stereo, Castiel thanks the heavens he has a sweet tooth.

Dean’s grateful really. Maybe the song about harbouring secret feelings was merely coincidental, an indication of Castiel’s apparent preference for the singer/songwriter schtick, nothing more. That’s the thought Dean screams through his head to try to negate the fact his palms had become sweaty, his breathing laboured, his jeans constricting. One of his patented exasperated glances will seal the deal that Dean’s uncomfortable with the saccharine _form_ of Castiel’s newly minted musical tastes, that he reads _nothing_ into the potentially autobiographical component of the choices.

It takes precisely one line to transport Castiel from the present to the past, from this stretch of highway to another.

 _I sit for hours just waiting for his phone call..._  

xxxxx

**August 2009**

“ _The voice says I’m almost out of minutes!”_

Castiel hadn’t _meant_ for this conversation to elicit a smile or laughter from Dean. Despite his continued, visceral belief that this phone call was nothing comedic, despite his incredible discomfort in having to resort to such banal forms of communication, Castiel cannot help but notice the warmth that sits like a pool in his belly as he recognizes the momentary sense of relief, maybe even happiness, in the voice on the other end of the line. Dean insists there is some humourous element to seeing an angel of the Lord on his caller ID, but Castiel wonders if maybe, just maybe, if there is some sense of content along with comedy in the hunter’s unconscious as they speak.

The details are fuzzy, but Castiel remembers something about Kansas City.  A hotel room. Century Hotel. A bed. A bed with Dean Winchester in it. A pledge to be there immediately. An insistence that Dean is a human with needs. Stuff he’s got to do. ~~Like sleep.~~  (Castiel chooses to mute this part). Four hours every once in a while.

It is only a fraction of a second that Castiel is lost after Dean’s plea. But in this tiny expanse of time, Castiel wonders what other needs Dean might have. Needs he might have in a bed. In the Century Hotel. In Kansas City. Needs with which Castiel might be able to aid the hunter. He imagines Dean must be exhausted after driving for sixteen hours. Limbs aching that Castiel could run his hands over, healing his pain without any use of his angel mojo. Exhausted. Maybe Dean was too exhausted to shower on his own. He might need someone strong to hold him up as the water casts itself over his skin. The skin with the constellations of freckles splashed across his face, across his back, down his legs. Constellations Castiel had memorized upon first sight in September 2008. Constellations he discovered, like an ancient astronomer, buried under blood. Constellations Castiel had cleansed. Maybe now too, Dean would need his help to be cleaned. In water, like a baptism, a wholly heaven-endorsed kind of activity. Castiel imagines his muss of hair pressed into Dean’s eyebrows, his lips buried in the nape of his neck, his hands firmly pressed against Dean’s hips as he _helps_ him, as Castiel’s own thigh presses against a part of Dean’s anatomy that reaffirms to Castiel that, yes, God is good. All of this passes within a fraction of a second, when the word ‘Yes’ is released from Castiel’s lips to Dean’s ear, connected by the receiver but unable to decipher all of which Castiel is enthusiastically affirming.

_“Okay, so you can pop in tomorrow morning.”_

Pop in. Again, a _yes_ immediately vacates Castiel’s mouth while he is able to conceal precisely that which he wishes to “pop into” the next day.

“ _I’ll just … wait here then.”_

xxxxx

Castiel's eyes open suddenly, the song again approaching its descent. He worries that the flush of his cheeks and sudden onset of breathlessness confess his fantasy, and that this confession will force Dean’s hand, force him to tell Castiel, once and for all, to quit.

He is partially right. He does force Dean’s hand. His right hand, in fact. To move from the death clutch he has had on the wheel of the Impala, to softly, subtly, bravely, crucially, gently clasp Castiel’s shoulder. Because Dean Winchester is a human. With needs.


	5. Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author assumes Johnny Cash was probably a badass hunter. June Carter too. A pretty fluffy chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Ring of Fire," recalling the first meeting of our star-crossed lovers.
> 
> Sidenote: Spent the day going through and correcting the litany of errors in the first few chapters! Oy, typing on a tablet is no fun. Additional happy sidenote - it is almost summer vacation, and I, as an elementary school teacher, will have 300% more brainpower to commit to this (will miss my kiddos though).

* * *

_The taste of love is sweet_  
_When hearts like ours meet._  
_I fell for you like a child,_  
_Oh, but the fire went wild._  
  
_I fell into a burning ring of fire,_  
_I went down, down, down and the flames went higher_  
_And it burns, burns, burns,_ _  
The ring of fire, the ring of fire._

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

Castiel has endured many things. He has had a knife plunged into his guts as the conclusion of a one night stand. (Thanks, April!) He has exploded at the mere snap of two fingers. (Thanks, Lucifer!) He has been fractured, atom by atom, in fiery, archangel righteousness. (Thanks, Raphael!) He has had thousands of soulless creatures vacate his vessel simultaneously. (Okay, that one’s entirely his own fault.) But there is no part of Castiel that believes that even the sum of those experiences matches the sensation of Dean Winchester’s right hand resting on his left shoulder at this very moment.

And there Dean’s hand stays as the next song plays. Castiel knows it will be one Dean is able to place almost immediately.

_Love is a burning thing…_

The familiarity of the tune puts Dean at ease. He has no recollection how his hand traveled from the comfortable, safe place on the steering wheel to rest on Castiel’s shoulder. But the triumphant horns and warm ruggedness of Cash’s voice bestow on him the bravery to break the silence.

“So...suddenly into music, huh Cas?”

“Metatron made me.” The sentence is brilliantly, supremely juvenile, and Castiel feels immediately mortified. Struggling to rebound, he elaborates. “What I mean is, Metatron tired of me not relating to anything in your popular culture, so he gave it all to me. I must admit, it’s a bit daunting to choose favourites among so much content.”

“Huh. Well, blessed with the sudden knowledge of all of humanity’s creative impulses, I’m just glad to see a classic made its way onto your list Cas.” Dean delivers a sympathetic squeeze to Castiel’s shoulder before removing his hand, pretending as if the gesture was intentional rather than an unbridled instinct.  

Castiel nearly whimpers at the loss of the hand, as if it was a privilege unfairly revoked. While he wants to immediately wage a protest, start a petition, he manages a strained smile in response, alongside an awkward, unrelenting nodding of his head. He speaks partially because it would be rude not to reply to Dean, and partially because he knows of no other way to stop the manic motions of his face at the present.

“I figured you would appreciate this one. The infernal theme in most popular music usually seems desperately provocative, but given this particular singer was a seasoned hunter, his use of the metaphor seems apt. I recall Crowley even tried to make a deal with him once, in the sixties he said. He found him in a jail cell in El Paso and Crowley just ---”

Dean interrupts him. “Hold on. Now I don’t need any reason to commit to the conviction that Johnny was an undeniable badass, but you are telling me he was a hunter? A vampire-decapitating, demon-exorcising, salt on the window panes, holy water-hoarding hunter?”

“Quite a prolific one, actually.”

“Awesome. First Abraham Lincoln, now the Man in the Black.” A grin lights up Dean’s face, a genuine moment of happiness, of pleasure. Rare as they are, Castiel cherishes it as if it is a precious, rare artifact. It is almost as satisfying as the now-absent hand on Castiel’s shoulder. His archaeology is abruptly interrupted:

 _I fell for you like a child,_ _  
_ _Oh, but the fire went wild._

Shoulders, hands, fire.

xxxxx

**September 2008**

Castiel is not quite sure how his garrison was chosen for this particular mission, even less so, why he was chosen to lead it. All he knew is that he was told it was God’s will, and, in all aspects of his essence, he knew that to be true.

_You are to lead the charge through the dredges of hell to rescue the soul of a righteous man. He will be damaged, but not beyond repair. He must be saved. He must live to defend humanity once more._

Even in his shattered state, bloodied, broken, Dean Winchester is beautiful. Castiel has always been fond of God’s greatest creations, but as his hand extends to the flesh of this single man amidst the flames, he is entranced. Even if he could extinguish the flames surrounding them, Castiel himself is consumed. After he firmly has a grip, what is left of his garrison retreats to heaven; Castiel pulls Dean to a plane of existence beyond hell, beyond earth, beyond heaven. He examines the damage, to the soul and to the vessel, handling each wound he encounters with gentle precision. He has nursed warriors back to health before. He has repaired damage to countless fragile human forms. He has existed as an entity for eons, and is utterly at a loss at all the intoxicatingly new sensations overwhelming him. He wants to heal every scar, every painful memory, he wants to prevent hurt from ever coming this man’s way. His mission is clear: to recover, heal and reinstate a soldier. And yet, Castiel, for the first time in his existence, wishes to defy orders, to hide this man from all that is wrong with the world, to protect him from ever again suffering. As he stitches together the last fragment of Dean Winchester’s soul, Castiel is overwhelmed by a profound sense of loss. Before he loses him to a field in Pontiac, Illinois, he reaches once more to the space on the man’s body he has branded.

xxxxx

_The ring of fire, the ring of fire._

The song ends just as Castiel finds himself leaning into the driver, wrapping his arm around him, planting his hand once more on his left bicep.


	6. All Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author plays within one of her most favourite episodes, Hunteri Heroici, and uses it as a diving board for a most necessary plunge. 
> 
> Tangent: When revisiting some of these scenes to get inspired I have that Destiel shipper feeling I'm sure many do. Namely that the degree of care between these two characters WITHIN CANON is just so utterly astounding and gives fans so much to work with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day! Totally surprised where this is taking me and absolutely happy to be along for the ride. The song for this chapter is "All Through the Night" by Cyndi Lauper.

* * *

_All through the night_  
_I'll be awake and I'll be with you_  
_All through the night_  
_This precious time when time is new_  
_Oh, all through the night today_  
_Knowing that we feel the same without saying_

* * *

**December 2012**

_“I’ll watch over you.”_

Castiel recognizes how the four words, innocent as they may be, immediately elicit distress. Dean’s pursed lips give way to a frightened chuckle. Castiel can nearly imagine Dean exaggeratedly pulling his tie to the side, with the word EEK! or YELP! or some other form of onomatopoeia plastered in a speech bubble over his head. He wants to implore Dean to reconsider: there is no reason for Castiel to pay for another room simply to sit there, quietly. He could very well achieve that same result within these four walls as the brothers slept their requisite four hours. And Dean hadn’t fear: Castiel had absolutely no desire to braid Sam Winchester’s hair, make prank phone calls, or participate in any other pubescent rituals this evening.  Although he could see the appeal of playing truth or dare late into the night, he would very well keep that fact to himself. His opening arguments are interrupted by a report he overhears coming through the police scanner - a robbery with cartoonish characteristics. As he suggests it warrants investigation, Castiel imagines Dean’s body language summarized in explosive text above: PHEW!

Dean’s relief is short-lived. As Sam departs the bank at Detective Glass’s side, Dean and Castiel return to the scene of their earlier discomfort.

 _“Your father... Beautiful handwriting.”_  
  
Castiel, directionless yet with reverence, turns the pages of John Winchester’s notebook. He seems a bit lost, more lost than usual. Dean hates chick-flick moments as much as hellhounds and airplanes put together, but the uncertainty he sees painted across the angel’s face leaves him no choice. He desperately wants Castiel to be okay; Dean wants nothing more than to let go of the breath he has been waiting to exhale since Castiel’s return from purgatory. The man who has tried to keep his distance from every person he has ever met is taken aback by the words that next fall from his lips.

_“Talk to me.”_

Dean has closed his laptop and walked over to him, sitting on the adjacent bed. Castiel expects to see nervousness or discomfort in the kelly green eyes across from his own, surprised to only see affection. The common thread connecting Castiel’s essence, whether his grace, his soul, his vessel, is a deep desire to avoid burdening Dean Winchester with his own angst. But before he knows it, he is pouring out all that troubles him: the devastation and suffering he has caused, the thousands of names that haunt him, the fear, not of death, but of hopelessness. Castiel can feel his heart pounding at the barrier of his flesh as he longs to bury his head into Dean’s chest and weep.

Sam enters the room, and Dean swears that his brother can tell his heart is pleading to leap out of his chest.

xxxxx

**June 14, 2014**

_We have no past we won't reach back_ _  
_ _Keep with me forward all through the night._

Castiel’s fingertips press tentatively into the soft flannel of Dean’s shirt. The sweet scent of the pastoral air effortlessly wafts through the windows. The memory fades from Castiel’s mind as he becomes acutely aware that the racing heartbeat he felt in Oklahoma City is battling with his sternum once more, as if wrongfully imprisoned by his body.

The tail lights ahead remind Dean of all that Sam has had to plausibly deny over six years. The knowing looks. The unnecessary touches. The purposeful innuendo. The agony of loss.  Dean recalls a moment in a generic hotel room in Oklahoma City where he had tried, really, honestly tried to show Castiel the extend of their profound bond, just as Sam walked in. He remembered how his heart felt then, as it is in a similar state now. As Cas draws soft circles into Dean’s left deltoid, Dean’s heart leads him to take one more leap. To move forward with the man who had always believed him to be worthy. His face turns to meet Castiel’s, moving patiently, deliberately, purposely towards it.

  
_Until it ends there is no end…_


	7. Close to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Robert Smith seems to have an intimate, almost prophet-esque acquaintance with the future of the two men trapped within the Impala at the present. Also, the part of our story in which, despite noble intentions, Sammy once again executes some grade A cockblocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really earns that slow burn tag, now doesn't it? Total tease, but I promise, patience is a virtue. Song featured is "Close to Me," by the Cure. FYI, I have a playlist going of well over a hundred DeanCas inspired tracks, so this will, in all likelihood, sometime turn into its own verse. Because one cassette tape can't really cover it all, now can it?

* * *

_I've waited hours for this_  
_I've made myself so sick_  
_I wish I'd stayed asleep today_  
_I never thought that this day would end_  
_I never thought that tonight could ever be_ _  
This close to me_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

_This_ close to me. Castiel has approached this position before, only to have it flee. Moments when arms slung around his shoulders linger just long enough to suggest the possibility. Moments when he or Dean seem to be engaged in a battle fit for archangels, each refusing to turn away from  the other’s gaze. One moment where he is sure that Sam muttered “enough already” under his breath. But even though Castiel has neared this moment before, the stars have never quite aligned to have it reach this point. _This_ close. As he shifts his body closer to the driver, his palms begin to perspire, his lips perceptibly tremble.

 _This_ close to me. Dean knows he only has seconds before he must once again turn to the road ahead. Seconds before he loses his courage to act on the truth told through his erratic pulse and softly panting breath. Seconds to settle six years of indecision. Seconds to show Cas how thankful he is to still have him at his side, to have someone who still has faith in him, who still trusts Dean is good. Seconds to show his need and want for Cas. He is nearly compelled to retreat when he finds the resolve to push ahead in the longing look he finds on the face of the man who has asked for so little. A man _this_ close to him.

It is at precisely this moment Dean’s cell phone rings.

He fumbles with misguided urgency to answer it, abruptly halting the moment. Cas sees his gesture and meets it, hitting pause on the music that has moved the men this far.

“Sammy? What’s wrong? Cas’s car begging you to pull a Kevorkian and put it out of its misery?”

Dean hears two frustrated sighs, one from his passenger, one from the other end of the call. He makes a mental note to find friends with better senses of humour. “No Dean. Just wanted to let you know that I’ve got to pull off at the rest stop up ahead to refuel the tank. Cas was nearly running on fumes here. You should probably teach him what that does to the fuel pump. Anyway, you guys go ahead, I’ll catch up in a bit.”

“That it?” Dean hears the crack in his voice, hoping Cas is oblivious.

Politely staring out the window to give some semblance of privacy as Dean communicates with his brother, Castiel cannot help but smile when Dean’s voice betrays him, vocalizing the stress he is clearly feeling in the moment.

“That’s it. Don’t wait for me, we’ll all reconnect at the bunker. I’m good. Have a good ride home.” 

“Yeah you too Sammy.” The call drops, Dean sliding the device back into his pocket. He thoughtlessly rubs the heel of his hand against the mark, wondering if the inflammation flushing the patch of skin stems from his current desire to kill his brother. Dean inhales a breath deeply into his lungs, mourning what now seems to be the abyss of space between him and the passenger, who has pressed his body against the opposite window. Dean hits play to fill the void between the two men, wondering if he would have kept his nerve without Sam’s interruption.

xxxxx

Sam’s finger grazes across the red button to end the call. He looks one last time at the car trailing him before taking the next exit. While he was not privy to the soundtrack of the road so far, the expressions reflected to him in the rear view mirror let him know much was said, even if conversation was sparse. Sam had survived six years of hesitation and indecision, six years of feeling like he was interrupting or preventing something from unfolding. And he knew that Dean believed his avoidance to be for his brother’s sake. But the younger Winchester finally had enough. Sam hoped that confined to the Impala, Sam out of sight, the least subtle song selections imaginable, would be the push Dean needed. And maybe having something good in his life would force Dean to realize what was at stake, what was decidedly not righteous, in his vengeance-soaked plan. He pulls off the dirt road to the parking lot of the Pump and Go, admiring his plan as he looks at the fuel gauge, the arrow still resting squarely on F.

xxxxx

 _But if I had your face_ _  
_ _I could make it safe and clean_

Dean draws back to memories painstakingly preserved of the angel seated next to him ridding him of wounds. The field in Lawrence. The abandoned warehouse in Lincoln Springs. The deepening pit forming in Dean’s guts reminds him of his brief bout with stomach cancer, courtesy of Zachariah. Except this time, the source of his suffering is not a tyrannical angel, not torture devised by one of Crowley's lackeys, not even the blistered skin and its compulsions. Dean knows but dares not admit it is his denied desire burrowing a hole through his abdomen. It nearly makes him plead to Cas to strip him of his pain once more.


	8. Big Black Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author has had enough - Cas pouts and Dean uncharacteristically confronts his problems rather than driving in the opposite direction as fast as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is "Big Black Car" by Gregory Alan Isakov. Rationale behind that should be pretty obvious. Also, for those of you who have stuck with me this far, I thank you! There will be a break from the angst in the near future.

* * *

_Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face_ _  
_ _The past, she is haunted, the future is laced_ _  
_ _Heartbreak, ya know, drives a big black car_  
_Swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

Decrescendo and crescendo. Ebb and flow. Always striving for yet eternally missing. Bound by this human form, unable to flee from this plane, Castiel settles for sulking. His arms cross over one another, his muss of hair pressed unyielding into the headrest as he searches the passing constellations for solace. He will not speak first.

 _Heartbreak, ya know, drives a big black car_ _  
_ _Swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own_

Dean doesn’t know what he was hoping for, but this choice feels like an epitaph. The song does not gesture towards possibility, but rather, laments the pain caused the driver of a big black car, to a passenger who feels as if he is just taking up space. Could this be what Cas thinks Dean regards of him? That the being that had given him purpose, life, strength for a half decade was so insignificant? Dean feels as if he has each and every one of these fears confirmed in the single syllable that drips from Cas’s tongue.

 _Heartbreak, ya know, drives a big black car_ _  
_ _Swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own_

“Hmph.” The sound bounds past his teeth before he can pull at its leash, along with the slightest upturn of a vindictive smile. Indeed, he _was_ wholly satisfied stretched across the back bench of the Impala a quarter hour before. Such a tiny, microscopic expanse of time, time that have passed without any notice from Castiel in his previous form. Time that now feels like it was an eternity away leaving Castiel once again, heartbroken, next to the driver of a big black car.

“Something funny Cas?” The three words cascade from Dean’s lips with a gruff shortness Castiel should want to admonish, but in which he only respond to with a tortured laugh.

“It’s nothing Dean. Just a part of the song I found amusing.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that? No offense, but your choices so far aren’t exactly Funny Bone Ticklers, Volume One.”

“Ahhh. And tell me, do you detect a theme to my choices, Dean? What label do you suggest?” Castiel studies Dean’s throat intently, his Adam’s Apple throbbing intensely as he is forced to choke down the hurt. Castiel regrets his harsh words almost immediately.

 _This could be all that we know..._ _  
_ _Of love and all._

Judging by the look on Dean’s face, Castiel knows he needs more words, better words, apologetic words, confessing words, to make it all right. But those are words that seem to be missing in action in this moment. He resigns himself to fix his eyes on the rapidly moving scenery until they reach Lebanon. Until the scenery stops moving, the engine stops humming, until Castiel hears a plea he cannot ignore.

_“Talk to me.”_


	9. I'm Sorry I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which this story's namesake motivates Dean precisely as it did Cas. 
> 
> The chapter in which the author fully resolves that the Impala is the third character in this romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor mention of suicidal ideation in this chapter, just a heads up. If need be I can send you a version without it in it.
> 
> Song this time around is the story's namesake, "I'm Sorry I Love You," by the Magnetic Fields. Truly a perfect track to encapsulate what is going on with these two - denial, self-loathing, but at the end of all of it, unmistakably love.

* * *

_A single rose in your garden dwells_  
_Like any rose it's not itself_  
_It is my love in your garden grows_  
_but let's pretend it's just a rose_  
_Well I'm sorry that I love you_  
_It's a phase that I'm going through_  
_There is nothing that I can do_ _  
__and I'm sorry that I love you_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

The horizon is dark, nearly pitch black, the farmhouse in the distance made intelligible only by the lantern hanging from tattered wood. Castiel examines the illumination intently, avoiding shifting his neck back to the car’s interior, avoiding “the talk” Dean has unexpectedly initiated. While he seriously considers maintaining his vow of silence, to continue pretending he is truly captivated by what amounts to a shielded lightbulb, he recognizes it won’t alleviate the heavy burden the Impala being put into park has put upon him. Besides, it seems utterly juvenile to remain aloof as Dean has, once again, risked a chick flick moment for the sake of communication.

Castiel turns his head from the comfort of the solitary light to the uncertainty of the darkened car. He finds himself in a defensive pose, hands balled into fists, words somehow managing to push past gritted teeth.

“Dean, I’m not sure how to say this. I fear you will not like what I have to say, and I fear that dislike will change things in an irrevocable way.”

The upbeat tune overtaking the stereo seems out of sync with the solemnness of the current scene, so Dean moves his hand to turn the song off. As his calloused digits graze the audio panel, they are met with Cas’s own long, soft, even elegant ones.

“No...listen.”

Bravely, blindly, Castiel entwines his fingers into Dean’s, fully surrendering to this impromptu admission. He rests their hands, together, at the center console. He half expects Dean to shake it off in disgust, relieved when he instead tightens the grip.

 _A single rose in your garden dwells_  
_Like any rose it's not itself_  
_It is my love in your garden grows_  
_but let's pretend it's just a rose_  
_Well I'm sorry that I love you_  
_It's a phase that I'm going through_  
_There is nothing that I can do_ _  
__and I'm sorry that I love you_

One pass through the chorus and Dean drops Castiel’s hand, leaving Castiel in a state of full, unbridled melancholy. All the loss, regret, pain Castiel has known, the exquisite suffering of falling, plunging from grace, none of that matches the depth of hurt he feels at the rejection. For if Dean's answer is an unmistakable "no," Castiel truly has been a fool tantalized and razed by his free will. If Dean's answer is an irreconcilable "no," Castiel's sacrifice, all he has done for him, was motivated by an unnamed hope that now lies crushed beneath the rubber sole of Dean's leather boot. Weakly, without thinking, he seeks the phantom angel blade, only to remember it is nestled inside the bag secured in the trunk. The thought of total consuming dejection is gently interrupted, as Castiel is startled by two firm hands gripping each of his cheeks, cheeks he didn’t realize were now stained with slowly falling tears.

 _Do not listen to my song_  
_Don't remember it, don't sing along_  
_Let's pretend it's a work of art_ _  
__Let's pretend it's not my heart…_

Dean was never one for doing what he was told. Just as the singer pleads to pretend, Dean plunges into the reality he has too long denied. He has been a soldier too long, and it's time to abandon his post, to succumb to human need and want rather than steadfastedly remaining faithful to his sense of duty. He clasps Cas's face - the sharpness of his jaw, the alluring roughness of stubble - between his hands, without inhibition, without remorse. With a relentless abandon he usually reserves for fending off the apocalypse, Dean commands his lips to seek their match on the angel at his side, past, present and future.

Sight enveloped by heavy lids, Dean's lips softly pressed against his own, Castiel has never found darkness more reassuring.


	10. Futile Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which pillows, marshmallows and clouds suddenly seem to be made of concrete, because holy hell is this fluffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song this chapter is "Futile Devices" by Sufjan Stevens, which I think is pretty much a perfect love song. Especially for these two. Like I could literally quote the whole song and you'd be like, yeah, that works as a Destiel song. Please enjoy - this was really hard to write but I feel pretty okay about it!

* * *

_And I would say I love you_ _  
_ _But saying it out loud is hard_ _  
_ _So I won't say it at all_ _  
_ _And I won't stay very long_ _  
_ _But you are life I needed all along_ _  
_ _I think of you as my brother_ _  
_ _Although that sounds dumb_  
_And words are futile devices_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

Dean Winchester has been happy before. It _can_ be hard to stop and smell the roses in a world where the threat of global destruction is as reliable as afternoon showers in the Amazon, but there are a few creature comforts he has allowed himself to fully enjoy. The indulgence of the Magic Fingers caressing his aching form after a full day on the road. The familiar comfort of singing alongside the Impala’s speakers to Ramble On. Cold beer, bacon cheeseburgers, black coffee. Apple pie, cherry pie, pecan pie, hell, any kind of pie. Dean Winchester has been happy before, but all of that happiness stands meekly in the shadows of the exhilaration coursing through his veins as he feels the pressure he has pressed against Castiel’s lips returned in full for the very first time.

Castiel has wielded incredible power before. His true visage leaves empty sockets in its wake; the frequencies of his unaltered voice deafen. He is a master of the grand entrance and memorable departures. With two fingers he has obliterated an archangel, decimated demons, brought the dead back into the world of the living with little strain. Castiel has known power. Electric, combustible, nuclear power. And yet, what he feels surging through this form, at this moment, the raw, kinetic, manic energy, the choice to retreat or surge forward, this sort of power is new. It is this power that Castiel harnesses as he slips his two hands beneath each of Dean’s thighs, hoisting him from anterior to posterior, swiftly joining him as their bodies frantically crash into the back bench of the Impala. The rate at which Castiel sheds Dean of his flannel and t-shirt make Dean take pause, wondering if the angel mojo might currently be at play afterall.

It is only after they have reached this new destination, Dean exquisitely without clothing from the waist up that Castiel notices the music is still playing, a song of such sweetness, of such precise meaning that Castiel has the strength to slow, to proceed with intent rather than succumb to the frenzy of the blood pumping in a decidedly southern direction at the present.

_I would say I love you_

Castiel rests one hand at the back of Dean’s neck while allowing the other to draw illegible words into his hipbone.

_But saying it out loud is hard_

Dean’s eyes are closed. Castiel kisses each of his eyelids gently before proceeding to drag his tongue down Dean’s cheek, tracing a pattern in freckles as he proceeds towards full, eager lips. _  
_

_So I won't say it at all_

Castiel links Dean’s lips with his own, losing himself in the alternating frictions, fluctuating between soft and firm before allowing his articulating organ to dive deep into the cavern of Dean’s mouth, relishing lips, gums, teeth and tongue he is certain are superior to the oral elements of all other human beings.

_And I won't stay very long_

Dean lets out a shy but clear moan, nearly a whimper, as Castiel’s mouth departs his own, licking its way down the ill-fated fruit of his neck, losing one paradise for another.

 _  
_ _But you are life I needed all along_

Castiel feels a mess of fingers coursing through his muss of hair, gently fingering the strands in affirmation, affirmation clearly resounding in the steadily-increasing heartbeat he hears playing through Dean’s chest as Castiel slowly surrounds his lips around one nipple, then the next.

 _  
_ _I think of you as my brother_

_Although that sounds dumb_

_And words are futile devices_

  
Castiel disrupts his downward path. He links each of his hands with Dean’s before commanding his sapphire eyes to meet the emerald ones that suddenly seem too far away. As Castiel allows himself to fully focus on bound hands, connected sight, light kisses placed on impossibly lush lips, words now seem like an utterly inefficient means of communication.


	11. Lover's Spit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the song "Lover's Spit" leads to the very activity you would think it would. Guys! Happy Canada Day! No better way to celebrate than with my very first fully NSFW (my work is done! Joy joy summer vacation) relatively smutty scene!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song this time is "Lover's Spit." I prefer the Feist version (although I adore Broken Social Scene and think Kevin Drew is amazing, there is just a yearning in Feist's voice that I feel like perfectly narrates this particular section). I hope this is satisfactory!

* * *

_All these people drinking lover's spit_ _  
_ _Swallowing words while giving head_ _  
_ _They listen to teeth to learn how to quit_  
_Take some hands and get used to it_

* * *

**June 14, 2014**

Dean’s hands cascade over the smooth leather of the Impala’s backseat, eventually propping his half-nude form partially upright. His shoulders shudder unintentionally at the coolness of the sunless spring air through the window, leaving in their wake an army of goosebumps overtaking his body. _Yes, it is the coolness of the night that Dean is so sensitive to._ The steady metal of the car door contrasts with his current undone state, with his willingness to totally surrender to frenzy. Dean dares to one more glance at the concentric azure and onyx, finding himself hopelessly and completely lost at the sight. Hoping to regain a semblance of control, he shuts his eyes, the visual stimuli too much to cope with, trying to arrange his own heartbeat and breath to match the melodic rhythm of the piano taking over his sound system.

As Dean closes his eyes, Castiel notices as a stray eyelash falls, landing amidst the flush slowly invading Dean’s complexion. Castiel extends his index finger to the height of Dean’s cheekbone, balancing the curved hair that must be mourning being separated from such a specimen. He gently kisses Dean’s eyes open once more, Dean’s breath hitched as he softly blows the lash away. Castiel silently hopes he can have some part in making the man’s wish come true.

 _All these people drinking lover's spit_ _  
_ _They sit around and clean their face with it_

The muse inspires Castiel to run his tongue from jaw to temple, pressing Dean’s earlobe gently within two fingers as his mouth memorizes each curve, each jut of bone. Unconsciously attempting to hide from the  crushing pleasure, Dean turns his neck, whimpering through lips still gated. As Castiel’s teeth graze the nape of his now available neck, the fortress of Dean’s mouth is compromised, a whispered “fuck” breaking the seal.

 _I like it all that way_ _  
_ _I like it all that way_

Both the men find themselves, without thinking, nodding along to the singer’s affirmation. Recognizing the subtle bob of Dean’s head, Castiel presses on. He lets his fingers catalogue the cartography of the musculature of Dean’s arms, directing two fingers to casually pass over the mark branded across Dean’s forearm, hoping to heal, fully willing to spend the last of his grace to banish this curse back to hell. As his fingers make the movement, he notices the slightest recoil of Dean’s body. He does not want Dean to feel discomfort. He does not want Dean to feel shame. So Castiel, without thought, as if it was an order from God, reverently bows his head until his lips align with the maligned flesh. He takes it fully into his mouth, sucking at the skin; if he cannot remove the mark, perhaps he can change it. He feels a sense of pride at the magenta hue he has left behind as he lifts his head.

Never one to feel drawn to faith, Dean is now convinced that Castiel’s kisses are a form of worship he could get behind, superior to all else devised by mankind. Dean recognizes his body is a wreckage in the wake of Cas’s mouth traveling up his arms, leaving trails of sweet saliva down his chest, migrating down his torso.

While he has received no indication that his explorations have their limits, Castiel needs further encouragement as he hooks the denim loops underneath his thumbs. He once again raises his face to align with Dean’s, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, searching for an answer.

Taking in the sight of that curious slope, Dean is almost proud that he is able to still articulate recognizable words. He manages two, to be precise, pleading “Cas please” from his raptured form as he grips Castiel’s hair roughly within his fingers, intently kissing him before pushing his face back to its last point of departure.

Castiel can feel the grin spread from ear to ear. Although the sensation of smiling so solidly feels strange, Castiel feels whole. There is a part of him that feels inclined to orate, to script a screenplay, to write the next great American novel about his busy bloodstream at this very moment. A million words pass through his mind as he unfastens a button and zipper, as he coyly reaches into the great unknown, pleased at the warm firmness awaiting him. Castiel wants to speak, but he listens to the words flooding the car.

 _All these people drinking lover's spit_ _  
_ _Swallowing words while giving head_ _  
_ _They listen to teeth to learn how to quit_  
_Take some hands and get used to it_

  
Castiel swallows salty words for minutes on end, surrendering himself to the dual narration: the singer and his soulmate working in tandem to reassure Castiel that the movements of his mouth at present speak volumes.


	12. Fade Into You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the first side of Castiel's mixtape finishes, and it has been a more successful endeavor than he could possibly imagine. Nearing the end of this particular part of the verse - just a couple more chapters to go...
> 
> Also, really earning the fluff and smut tag with this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star. One of my favourite songs ever.

* * *

_I want to hold the hand inside you_  
_I want to take a breath that's true_  
_I look to you and I see nothing_  
_I look to you to see the truth_  
_You live your life_  
_You go in shadows_  
_You'll come apart and you'll go blind_  
_Some kind of night into your darkness_  
_Colors your eyes with what's not there._

* * *

 **June 15, 2014**  

“Close.”

Castiel has heard a chorus of voices that are literally heavenly instruments, and yet the acoustics of the one word pant from Dean’s body on the brink puts them all to shame. Castiel readies for his mouth to be flooded.

If Dean Winchester is proud of one quality he possesses amongst his litany of flaws, it is his strength. The countless times he commanded his own rambling stomach to silence as Sammy ate a second sandwich in an anonymous motel off a stretch of highway unremarkable on maps. The resilience to keep searching for a pair of yellow eyes for years. The instinct to put his body and soul between the world and those who would bring humanity to its knees. The impossible strength to watch those he loves most dearly embrace that burden alongside him. Loved ones he’s lost to heaven and hell and all that is between. Dean would like to think he is a pillar of strength within their hackneyed little community of lost souls looking for a cause. But in this precise moment, with angelic lips wrapped around him, with the impossible warmth of Cas’s throat pushing him to the precipice, Dean fears his fate is akin to Lot’s wife: to chance one more look will be his ruin. Dean is suddenly relieved he has had so much practice building up strength, because it takes every ounce of it, every piece tucked away, to whisper “wait.”

“Wait.” Dean fears it could be construed as selfish, but, for maybe the first time in his life, he did not want to meet oblivion alone. He slowly caresses Cas’s chin, gently raising his face to meet his own, hoping his lips can translate the overwhelming sense of appreciation, affection, adoration he feels for the angel at this moment. He notes the evidence: the lines in Cas’s forehead, the dammed well in his eyes, the tension in his cheeks. But as soon as they appear, an invisible power forces the signs to dissipate. Dean wonders what he has ever done to earn the trust of a being this good.

“Like this.” Castiel has cautiously heeded the hunter’s advice to stop his proceedings despite his desire to complete the task which he has set himself. But the momentary disappointment of being separated from a part of Dean he believes he can grow to love as much as sundrenched freckles and glistening green is quickly replaced. The ‘this’ to which he is referring is a work in progress, a mandate for a higher degree of undress, a demand that Castiel is all too happy to meet. He is patient as Dean fumbles to unbutton the pressed white shirt, as if his fingers have memorized the opposite motions, rewarded for his virtue by the slip of the hunter’s hands down cotton sleeves as he helps Castiel’s condition match his own. The closed quarters make for an awkward dance as the two snake each other’s slacks to the floor. The trembling fingers handling Castiel’s clothing, the averted gaze as Dean cradles his head, guiding him to recline, the uneven breath Castiel now feels exhaled against his collarbone betray the hunter. Dean Winchester, lifelong lothario, is nervous, unsure of where to visit first amongst the deluge of flesh now at his disposal.

Dean’s insistence to wait at first seemed a request aimed to shatter Castiel’s fragile heart. But Castiel recognizes the indecision’s origin is not revulsion, but rather, reverence: this ritual is neither unimportant nor impulsive to Dean.

 _Fade into you_ _  
_ _Strange you never knew_ _  
_ _Fade into you_  
_I think it's strange you never knew_

He had chosen the words to ventriloquize his own thoughts and feelings to which he had supposed Dean had been unwilling to heed. But at this moment, as a seemingly endless stockpile of kisses are being unleashed upon his chest, Castiel adopts the position of the listener rather than the singer. He feels good lost measuring the expanse between this moment and the moment Dean first knew a more precise word for their profound bond, unsure if he needs seconds, minutes, hours, days, years.

The hope that the elapse of time is impossibly described in the immediate brings Castiel fully to attention underneath Dean’s toned thigh.

Feeling the stiff heat buried underneath his leg is all that Dean needs to fearlessly tread towards the unknown. He takes the fingers of one of Cas’s hands, each of those elegant, magical fingers, into his mouth, one by one. Emboldened by the nearly unbearable kindness he finds in Cas’s eyes, Dean gently releases Cas from the terrible cotton restraining him, wrapping Cas’s now coated hand around the two of them. Dean returns the gesture, feeling the heat of their two bodies, feeling the softness of Castiel’s fingers working with his own.

“Like this.”

It is improvisational art, the two working together to find the precise movement that will end in their mutual oblivion. Dean takes the plunge first, Castiel coming apart and going blind soon after the last song gives way to silence.


	13. Distopian Dream Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author knows how Chuck feels, unavoidably depriving beloved characters of their deserved happiness. Tangent: something which has always endeared me to Dean is his love of Vonnegut. I was 19 when Vonnegut died and immediately upon hearing of it, I went and got my first tattoo (not my last, and also, I have a fallen angel sigil, yes, I am that kind of SPN fan), "So it goes" scrawled across my hipbone. There is something about Vonnegut's recognition of the darkness of the world we live in while still being able to maintain a tenderness towards humanity that makes me feel like he really would be a good literary outlet for the Brothers Winchester. 
> 
> Fair warning, the angst doesn't end with this chapter. Season 9 was really sad guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song in this chapter is "Distopian Dream Girl" by Built to Spill. As a total sci-fi/apocalyptic geek, that song has always struck a chord with me. It's a pretty up-tempo track, which made up for how super bummed I felt writing this, like I owe Dean some pie.

* * *

_Can you make it real?_  
_Make it more than real, more than just feel_  
_We are on a ride_  
_We're on it all the time to the front of your mind_  
_..._  
_I'm the only thing that dies_  
_If it came down to your life or mine_  
_I would do the stupid thing_  
_And let you keep on living_

* * *

**June 15, 2014**

Dean has buried his nose into Cas’s atomic sex hair, each of his nostrils joyfully taking in the honey-soaked scent. The small space forces them to wrap their limbs around one another, but neither complains about the tangle. Dean is the first to break the silence.

“If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.”

“Vonnegut.” Castiel distinctly hears the skip of a beat of Dean’s heart as he is able to recognize the quote.

An unburdened grin stretches across that magnificent expanse of skin. “It’s gonna take some getting used to. It kind of grew on me, you being so pop-culturally stunted.” Dean presses an impossibly gentle kiss on Castiel’s hairline just as he is interrupted by his cell phone, buzzing against the floor of the Impala, concealed amidst a heap of clothing strewn across the ground of the car. In the absence of the soundtrack, Dean is utterly unaware of how much time has passed since he had, through gritted teeth, every fibre of his being charged, coated Castiel’s chest and stomach. He does a double take when he sees the time displayed on his screen, at first convinced it is a technological error, awed that he had silently, peacefully, lost four hours to Castiel’s arms, neck, ears, eyes.

 _Sammy._ He mouths the name to Cas, grasping the phone in one hand and his discarded t-shirt in the other. Dean clears away the evidence of the libidinal encounter as he hastily greets his brother, as if the mere presence of his post-coital voice would be incrimination enough.

“Where are you guys? I’m back at the bunker. You didn’t run into trouble, did you? Is it the mark? Dean, are you okay?”

“Jesus, Sammy, we’re fine. I’m fine. There’s no trouble, on our way. Just … something came up (Cas wiggles his eyebrows at that line, leaving Dean blushing, playfully swatting at his arm) along the way is all. Be there as soon as we can.”

“Does Cas know what Metatron’s next move is?”

 _Metatron._ The angel who reformed Cas's mind, making him able to recognize Dean’s reference just moments earlier, without strain. The angel who pinpointed Cas’s weakness, his immovable faith in Dean, and exploited it. The mere mention of the name is enough to wish it was the First Blade Dean was grasping instead of Cas’s hand. That thought makes Dean’s heart sink swiftly.

Curtly, he responds. “We’re on our way, talk soon.”

“Okay...bye Dean.”

Suddenly Dean wishes his clothes weren’t so scattered. He’s not having a big gay panic, as it were, but seeing this bliss for what it is: a momentary reprieve from the mission, from a life where there’s no time for breaks in backseats.

Involuntarily, Castiel’s head starts to slant, eyes squinted, as if he is trying to identify what it is that is causing Dean to behave in this manner, afraid, detached. The last few hours had justified six years of suffering for Castiel - had they not for Dean? As Dean hurriedly reassembles his outfit (sans t-shirt), Castiel’s hope that something had permanently shifted between the two men, that some new possibility had opened, is left like debris on the roadside. He follows Dean's lead, and within minutes, the two men are again seated in the front seat, feet away from each other but each very much alone.

As Dean puts the car into drive, Castiel would do anything to break the silence, would do anything to mend the rift he fears he has inadvertently created. He does not know where to begin, so his fingers fiddle with the radio, ejecting the cassette tape, flipping it over, putting it back in, lamenting the locomotion of the vehicle, wishing he could stay in the starlight, stay in their sanctuary, with Dean until the end. The lyrics pour over him, and Castiel wants once again to remind Dean of all he has done for him. Instead, he sits in silence.

 _I'm the only thing that dies_  
_If it came down to your life or mine_  
_I would do the stupid thing_  
_And let you keep on living_

  
Dean knows the words are meant to evoke Castiel’s past deeds, but can only see the future, his future, to which this common stretch of highway is leading.


	14. There is a Light That Never Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter named after a Smiths song, so you better get ready for ALL THE FEELINGS. 
> 
> All I felt while writing this was Poor Castiel, but also, don't hold all those feels in, darling! Furthermore, authorial promise: Dean's not a jerk. Just emotionally stunted.
> 
> This was written on the bus from Detroit to Chicago. Happy Independence Day, fellow Americans!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to "There is a Light That Never Goes Out" by the Smiths while reading this and feel melodramatic alongside me!
> 
> Side note: once I get back from vacation in the States, I'm writing a significantly less angsty Destiel longfic. I'd love for a collaborator! 
> 
> ❤️ Rosie

* * *

_Driving in your car_  
_I never never want to go home_  
_Because I haven't got one_  
_Anymore_

* * *

**June 15, 2014**

He could never before express, in human terms, what it felt like to fall. He would occasionally encounter comparable experiences like lost pieces of a puzzle. He would shudder at the rapid collapse of a building demolition, mourning its demise. He felt the strange stirring once more when he first encountered the torment captured in the strokes of Goya’s Old Woman. He nearly felt it fully as he heard the weeping wail of a parent as doctors set aside the defibrillator, horrified how the simple recitation of a time during the day seemed enough to shatter a human soul. Castiel never believed a quiet country road, misty, near-summer air, and crescentic moonlight could arrange a comparable tableaux.

He of course had before experienced loss, anguish, regret, betrayal in the form of a human being. Her name was April. He had been weak and vulnerable in a multitude of ways, and he had said yes. It was the first time he truly understood why this ritual meant so much to human beings: the momentary connection numbed the ache of the burdens of being alone in the world. Of course, with April, it was more momentary than most. While Castiel was relieved to hear it is a relatively uncommon practice for one night stands to end so aggressively (although he still wasn't sure that the ‘pity text’ seemed all that desirable either), he still couldn't help but feel some hesitation, some worry, that he had done something wrong. He reassured himself his next sexual experience wouldn't leave him eviscerated. He was mistaken.

Castiel has _literally_ been left for dead by a lover, and that was an experience he was envying at the moment. On a peaceful Kansas road, the fragrance of near-dawn dew filling the air, two boulders are plotting against him within his chest, compressing his lungs. A faint nausea lingers in his stomach and a cold sweat covers the entirety of the surface of his skin. Castiel had fallen, he had been wounded, hurt, left purposeless. But he had never done it while still smelling like Dean Winchester’s sweat, never while the salty residue of his semen still lingers on his tongue, never while fixed on the maroon mark his mouth had etched into Dean’s clavicle. He had been so sure his touch, his movements, his words, his body brought Dean comfort and pleasure. Hadn’t Dean’s touch and movements and words and body expressed as much? But if that was the case, Dean wouldn't have thrown away the t-shirt abruptly at the truck stop, wouldn't have evaded his gaze as they filled the tank, would have said two words to Castiel since. A catalyst has propelled Dean from serenity to sorrow, and Castiel knows himself to be the only suspect. How he wishes his grace was repaired, how he could relieve Dean of whatever stress he has inadvertently, blindly, remorsefully caused. He feels so utterly, helplessly human. Castiel had fallen, but he had never before known how much it could hurt to fall in love.

Now that he had admitted it, named it, and _it hadn't been enough_ , it felt like a poison surging through his bloodstream. For eons he had shrugged off the rants of Cupid as to the awe-inspiring power of this construct. For an angel, love was an utterly foreign feeling, a uniquely human problem, like hunger or thirst or sleep. But eventually burgers tasted good and beer was soothing and naps were relaxing and love, well, love consumed Castiel.

It consumed him from the moment he took on this vessel to save this man. It propelled him towards some foolish choices, some noble ones, and some that were a dastardly mix of both. It had made him willingly accept falling, rebellion, death. As it consumed him, it rebuilt him, it made him better, stronger. Worthy. Three things Castiel does not feel traces of in the moment. Ashamed. Insulted. Vulnerable. Three things he does. Dean must have reconsidered, must have weighed the incremental good Castiel has done for the world against the suffering and harm, the uneven balance impossible to ignore. He had felt something but been dissuaded. It won't happen again. Each of these intolerable pains pulls at Castiel’s mind silently without recourse. Those are the pains of falling he feels as he is seated next to Dean Winchester, on the road to Lebanon.

 _And if a double-decker bus_  
_Crashes into us_  
_To die by your side_  
_Is such a heavenly way to die_  
_And if a ten-ton truck_  
_Kills the both of us_  
_To die by your side_  
_Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine_

The words wash over Castiel. As he turns to the driver, he notices he is tense, restrained, as if like Atlas, the world rests on his shoulders. The green in Dean’s eyes is waning, probably dilated by the darkness. He grunts a strained breath as they pass a sign notifying them the next exit gets them closer to Lebanon.

“Almost there. You ready?”

They were almost there. Castiel will always be ready. He knows he may not be worthy of Dean’s love in return, but that will not stop him from falling a thousand times more.


	15. I'll Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which the author recognizes that the Season 9 finale is really, really sad. But even almostdemon!dean is still (canonically) tender towards Cas.
> 
> This one hurt to write guys. It earns that archive warning, but fear not - there are those who defy death as a permanent state in the SPN universe, and I fully intend to continue in that tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate myself for writing this.
> 
> Song is "I'll Fight" by Wilco.
> 
> I solemnly swear, this is not the end.

* * *

_I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go for you_  
_I'll fight, I'll fight, I'll fight, I'll fight for you_  
_I'll die, I'll die, I'll die, I'll die for you_  
_I will, I will, I will_

* * *

**June 15, 2016**

His first ten minutes alone in the bunker were welcomed. He was able to slow his mind, to worry not about the marked man or the fallen angel. His greatest concern at present was how quickly his fingers could unlace his boots. He felt blissfully unencumbered as he splashed cold water from the porcelain sink in the general direction of his face. As he looked at the dark circles and neglected stubble of the adjacent visage hanging over the sink, Sam was sure of one thing: he needed a break.

A break from angels and demons, a break from blood. A book, a beer, a beach. But at present, Sam sighed at the veracity of the cliché that ‘there is no rest for the wicked,’ images of a branded arm and heaven’s new dictator flashing through his mind. Sam needed a break, but the world needed him. Dean needed him.

 _Dean_ _needed him_. But more than ever, it seemed that Dean was unable to trust Sam’s judgment. A torrent of emotions overtook Sam. Relief at Cas’s choice. Frustration with Dean’s deceit. Hope that Cas could somehow convince him to let go of the First Blade before it got him killed. Or worse. That insisting voice in his head that Cas could do it, that Dean was at home with him, that the profound bond that they shared was indeed different than the love and loyalty Sam felt to either. Were they running late because --- no, Dean was too emotionally constipated for that… but maybe, just maybe, they weren't in trouble, they were in something wholly better? Pulled in two directions, between hope and fear, Sam glances at his phone for the twentieth time in as many minutes, his fingers lingering over dial. They can no longer resist.

  
The call ends, Dean gruff as ever, not sounding like a man who has satisfied a six year itch. Sam’s sure of one thing: Dean’s due a lecture.

xxxxx

  
Dean pulls up near the bunker just as night begins to give way to dawn. Castiel wants to grab his hand and insist they wait, convinced in some part of himself that the arrangement of colours in the sunrise can find the words he himself cannot. But as Dean rushes from his most beloved possession towards the bunker, Castiel knows that moment will have to wait, and so will he. He clutches the cold chrome of the door handle and bounds towards the bunker, following Dean. He is surprised to see Sam waiting outside. He is not surprised to see the expression Dean so oft and aptly described as Sam’s “bitch face” meeting the truant men.

Castiel tries not to eavesdrop, but it is clear from the men’s tone they are at an impasse. Sam departs one way, certain Dean’s martyr complex and the Mark make a disastrous pair. The fierceness at which Dean dismisses Sam’s reservations stands in sharp contrast to the sudden stake he seems to have in Castiel’s well-being.

 _“So, batteries_...”

“ _I'm fine_ ,” Castiel manages to half-heartedly respond.  
“ _No, you're not. How long you got_?”

Castiel wonders why Dean has forfeited the silence that haunted their last few hours. Why was he so suddenly concerned for Castiel? Was it that obvious that we was viscerally unwell? He manages to admit to Dean that he intends to use his last waking breath, a breath that might be a part of the foreseeable future, to defeat Metatron, army or no army.

“ _You still got us_.” The four words send an electrical surge through Castiel. I still have them. _I still have him_. He hasn't given up on me – there is still hope. As if to confirm the latent message in Dean’s remarks, Castiel pushes forwards. He wants Dean to know – he needs Dean to know.

“ _Dean. Those bombers -- you don't really think that I –“_

Now or never. The verdict. The weight of his heart.

“ _Cas, you just gave up an entire army for one guy. No, there's no way that you blew those people away.”_

One guy. The one guy worth giving up an entire army for. The one guy worth falling from heaven. The one guy for whom he would endure Hell and Purgatory a hundred times over. The righteous man. Castiel’s soulmate.

“ _You really believe we three will be enough?”_

“ _We always have been._ ”

Broken wings, bleeding grace, not an ally amongst his brethren, and yet, Castiel never felt stronger. Dean Winchester believed in him.

xxxxx

  
**24 Hours Later**  

Metatron knew the power of a good story, knew how words could not only describe the actions of characters, but inspire them. Metatron’s power came from his ability to be the storyteller; the embodiment of that power the mint green typewriter at the centre of his large wooden desk. Castiel finds the angel tablet within and without hesitation shatters that which has only brought him anguish. As he sits in the scribe’s chair, he feels an unfamiliar emotion take hold of his psyche: Castiel feels proud.

The feeling is short-lived. As Metatron puts together the details – Castiel’s insurrection, Gadreel’s sacrifice – he asks Castiel to tell him - what's next? Why has he abetted in so much celestial blood being spilled? “ _Oh, that's right -- to save Dean Winchester. That was your goal, right? I mean, you draped yourself in the flag of heaven, but ultimately, it was all about saving one human, right? Well, guess what. **He's dead, too**.”_

The words are delivered with calculated coldness, puncturing Castiel deeply.

 _He's dead._ Never has Castiel wanted more to be deceived, for the words to be a bluff, but the satisfaction in Metatron's eyes lets him know it is true. He inventories his body for an entry wound, sure he himself has been rendered lifeless – his blood stands still, his heart refuses to beat, his lungs seem suddenly disinterested in oxygen. He's dead, and now I don't remember how to live. He is about to give himself to the alluring numbness, picturing his beloved's face - flushed, freckled, unmistakingly alive - when the promise reanimates him.  He committed his last waking breath to Metatron’s downfall, and Castiel has no intention of being untrue to his pledge to Dean.

“ _And you're sitting in my chair.”_

The six words hang in the air between the two men. The man in the worn coat and cotton toque again speaks with a manic determination usually reserved for Bond villains, to, once again, a quite literally captive audience, shackled one more. Failing to source some new material, he lectures the fallen angel for his lack of curiosity, his inadequacy as a storyteller, looking for surrender in two pools of deep blue.

Not this time.

xxxxx

  
Castiel can remember managing to force some simple sentences from his mouth towards Hannah after Metatron is securely behind bars. But when the mission is complete, he finds himself profoundly, surreally without direction. As if Polaris has been removed from the sky. As if he is sleepwalking, Castiel loses hours, eventually coming to his senses as the sun rises over Lebanon, Kansas. He walks with his bag of possessions Slung over his side, in a trance towards the familiar concrete, the sun’s beams softly illuminating his path. When he arrives at his destination, he finds a distraught Sam, eyes red and swollen. He stares at the man with bated breath before Sam sobs his introduction.

“He's gone Cas. He’s gone.”

Castiel feels the shoulder of his trench absorb the shower of Sam’s tears as he slumps into the angel’s arms. Castiel wraps both arms around his body, holding the last connection he has to the man he loves.

They stand that way until the pinks and oranges have faded from the sky.

  
After Sam brews a pot of strong coffee, the two men piece together their companion experiences. How Crowley aided in Dean’s escape. Gadreel’s redemption. Cas’s impromptu radio broadcast. The bloodied and battered body Sam had carried back to the bunker. How he returned to find an empty bed. They still seemed to have many gaps only one other person could fill, the person for whom either would gladly trade his life at this very moment.

“Sam, we will find a way.” Castiel tries to reassure the younger Winchester, tries to lessen his pain. It's what Dean would have wanted.

 _Would have._ Past tense. Castiel feels his restraint breaking, the water welling, the lungs tightening, and knows he needs to excuse himself. “We need rest. Food. Then we begin.”

He can tell Sam wants to contest the plan, but his body is in no condition to begin a search and rescue, at the moment. The men agree: four hours, and they begin.

As the door to Sam’s bedroom quietly shuts, Castiel finds himself pacing about the bunker, unsure of what he is searching for. He hovers around Dean’s bedroom door. How he longs to open it and be admonished for the invasion of privacy. What he'd give to see Dean reclining on his bed, reading a dog-eared Vonnegut novel, softly chuckling at all the funny bits. Castiel has to dig deep for the strength to push open the ordinary door, aching at the emptiness he encounters on the other side.

He stands reverently at the foot of the bed, slowly stripping himself of his shoes, bag and coat. He slowly lowers himself onto the sheets, taking in their sweet scent. Cedar. Sunshine. Sweat. As he moves his face to the pillow, he notices a large stain of red. Dark red. At this sight, Castiel finally gives himself permission to let it all out. He sobs into Dean’s blood until he, exhausted, falls asleep.

xxxxx

  
“Cas…you in there?”

The tenderness of Sam’s voice wakes Castiel from vacant sleep. He is soon joined in the room by the towering man.

“I apologize Sam,” Castiel mutters, embarrassed to have his sentimentality on display. His prostrate body shoots upright. “I realize now it was inappropriate for me to come in here without your permission.”

“Permission? Cas, you just lost the person you lo—cared for most in this world, the guy who taught you how to be human. You're allowed to mourn, to wallow. He did for you.”

 _He did for you_. Castiel feels his heart beat for the first time in twelve hours. But he is still not ready to meet Sam's gaze, as his eyes are too similar a shade of green to bear. Sam notices his reluctance but is too kind to mention it.

“Listen, I was going through the bunker to see if there were any clues to where he'd been or where he went and I came across this. Dunno if it'll help us, but it might help you.”

Sam gently places the object in Castiel’s hand and promises to be back after a shower and sandwich. It is not until Sam has left that Castiel has the courage to confirm the object is what he thinks it is.

In his hands, Castiel holds a plastic case. In his hands, Castiel holds Dean’s final words.

_Cas – Gotta finish something stupid I started – must be June. Don’t know if I'm gonna see the other side of this one but know I can't live life as the man this mark has made of me. I'm sorry. I'm thankful. I want to be worthy. No good with words but have a lot to say. Hope you still want to listen. - Dean_

Castiel runs his fingers over the script, enamoured with the ink. He fumbles towards his bag, pulling out the most prized possession, slipping in Dean’s gift. He adjusts the headphones over his ears, resting his muss of hair against the still damp pillow, inhaling deeply as he hits play.

The track begins. Castiel listens for answers.


	16. These Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which there is a happy ending, waiting in the future.
> 
> How they get there in the second instillation of this verse, coming soon.
> 
> Thank you so much for coming along with me on this ride. 
> 
> ❤️ Rosie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is "These Days" as performed by the incomparable Nico.

* * *

_I had a lover,_  
_I don't think I'll risk another_  
_These days, these days._  
_And if I seem to be afraid_  
_To live the life that I have made in song_  
_It's just that I've been losing so long._

* * *

**July 16, 2014**

Castiel has not gotten out of bed before noon since that day. But today is different. Today, precisely one month later, he is going to have breakfast with an old friend. He curses the morning alarm’s unkindness as he takes in his weathered reflection from the mirror. He runs his slender fingers over the deepening creases, wiping at the darkness now underneath his eyes. 8 AM is too early to give in, he thinks, closing his eyes tightly, gripping the handles of the faucet until a steady stream of water begins to fill the ivory basin. He quickly runs a cool washcloth over his increasingly bearded face, runs his hands through the mop of brown anarchy atop his head. Castiel takes one last glance at the ghost he sees in the mirror before steadily moving towards the entrance, nodding at Sam on his way out.

 _I've been out walking_  
_I don't do too much talking  
These days, these days.  
These days I seem to think a lot  
About the things that I forgot to do  
And all the times I had the _ _chance to._

As he takes his first steps into the unbearably bright day, he quickly slips the retro headphones over his ears, now nearly as ubiquitous part of his daily armor as the trench. The trench Dean had fished from the waters of Bootback. A memento of their connection, uninterrupted by death. Castiel takes one deep breath as his fingers graze the plastic button with the engraved triangle. The slow strumming begins and Castiel feels himself comforted by this second connection he still possesses to the love lost, but not let go. The husky, pained voice narrates his walk to the Lebanon diner his friend insisted was second only to his much-beloved Kripke’s Hollow.

 _I've stopped my rambling,_  
_I don't do too much gambling_  
_These days, these days._  
_These days I seem to think about_  
_How all the changes came about my ways_  
_And I wonder if I'll see another highway._

As the song ends, Castiel succumbs to the desire to rewind and repeat. The dust cakes his clothes along the quiet country road, the sun relentless against his reddening nose. Travelling this way makes him miss the Impala’s smoothness, the almost obscene purr of its motor vibrating beneath his limbs. He forces himself from the memory as the diner comes into sight, mouthing the next words like a eulogy.

 _I had a lover,_  
_I don't think I'll risk another_  
_These days, these days._  
_And if I seem to be afraid_  
_To live the life that I have made in song_  
_It's just that I've been losing so long._

Before crossing the threshold, Castiel swipes at the square, concealing the device within his pocket, secretly rubbing at the pools filling his eyes. He is not ashamed of his pain, but he has never been one to solicit pity. He follow his feet across the ceramic to the already seated other half of his table for two.

“Hello Castiel.”  
“Hello Chuck.”

xxxxx

Neither of the men are much good at exchanging pleasantries. Castiel comments that it is nice that the diner has locally sourced honey. Chuck makes an awkward comment about a girl he once knew named Honey. The two mostly stare at the ceiling, nervously tapping their fingers on the plastic table before their apron-clad saviour arrives.

“What can I get for ya?”

Chuck orders the Belgian waffles. Castiel orders eggs, bacon and black coffee. It is Castiel’s order that initiates the conversation for which Chuck had asked him to join him.

“Since when do you order your coffee black?”

Castiel hesitates. He could make up some story, about growing to appreciate the bitter taste. But it wouldn't be the truth. _Because it tastes like him_ , he wants to confess. _Because it makes me feel like he's not really gone._

Maybe it's the grimace that spreads across Castiel’s face, maybe it's the way in which the innocuous inquiry seems to have stunned him into silence. But Chuck feels partly responsible for the hurt he knows is radiating deep through Castiel, down to the bone. He takes a long breath before beginning.

“Castiel, I'm not publishing the books anymore, but I still get the visions, and I still write.”

He pulls out a manuscript. In bold letters **Do You Believe in Miracles – Working Title** adorns the front cover. He slowly pushes the text across the table, towards Castiel’s tentative hands. He does not proceed until Castiel begins to flip through the pages.

“The story is about regret. He regretted his weakness during the trials. He regretted his weakness in the hospital. He regretted agreeing to track down Cain with Crowley. He regretted the Mark. He thought taking it on would right some of his wrongs. He regretted not finding another way. But most of all, he regretted the words he never said to you.”

Castiel looks up from his investigation of the text to look at Chuck.

“Page 189.”

Castiel reads the last sentence of the chapter.

_As the blade pierced Dean’s chest, an ungranted wish passes through his mind: I wish he knew I loved him._

Castiel again meets Chuck’s eyes with his own.

“And now you do.”

xxxxx

The men finish their meals in comfortable silence. Castiel nibbles at his food as he examines the book more deliberately. Chuck makes notes of what parts elicit a reaction from the notoriously stoic face. They pay their bill, preparing to go their separate ways.

The light that greets them as they pass through the door seems less hostile than before. Castiel pulls Chuck into an embrace, unable to find the words to express the depth of his gratitude. He settles for a simple “thank you.”

“It's my pleasure. Cas…” he tries out the pet name, seeing if he's yet earned the privilege.

“Yes Chuck?”

“One more thing, before you go. Call it a sneak peek at how it all ends." He pauses and smiles. "It's this new thing I want to try out - a happy ending."

Chuck raises his palm to Castiel’s forehead. Castiel knows it's a vision, a dream, but he swears can hear the willows swaying, he can smell the jasmine in bloom. The scorching summer heat has given way to a comfortable breeze at dusk. He moves towards the dock, trying to make out the shadowy sitting at the water’s edge. His legs solve the mystery first, and before long, he is full on sprinting down the rickety wood towards the lake.

The figure pulls him in close. Arms clad in a familiar leather jacket. Freckles scattered like fireflies across the sky. A green of the leaves and the trees, a green that gives him life. Two hands find their way onto the sides of Castiel’s face, full lips pressing a kiss upon his lips of impossible softness.

“Hey Cas. Welcome home.”

 


	17. Sequel, Ho!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's all continue this journey together over at [The Last Beat of My Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7452907/chapters/16935649), shall we? We shall...

The sequel awaits! Head over to [The Last Beat of My Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7452907/chapters/16935649).


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